The first time I saw a wild Dennis Lillee charging in from the boundary against the Poms at the WACA, as a pimply-faced, 13-year-old in the summer of 1979, I trembled with fear. It was not the sight of the dishevelled Lillee, sprinting toward the crease looking like Jack Nicholson from The Shining, that caused such abject terror. It was the tribal chants of "Lillee", "Lillee" coming from the hundreds of bare-chested, sunburnt, boozed-up buffoons in the crowd behind me that had me clinging to the fence; thinking at any moment I was going to be placed on a spit and cooked. Advertisement But, my panic quickly evaporated when the...
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